


a life in your shape

by overtture



Category: Lego Ninjago
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bittersweet, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Cole's Mom is an Elemental Master, Dysfunctional Family, F/M, Falling In Love, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Head Injury, Homelessness, Love at First Sight, Not Beta Read, Pre-Canon, Romantic Fluff, Time Skips, aka i dismantled canon and character w/ my bare hands bc i love suffering, ask to tag, but mostly referenced, mostly - Freeform, so if this doesnt make any sense thats why, they are very in love but also hot messes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 14:33:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,315
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19378651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/overtture/pseuds/overtture
Summary: One day, the sky met the earth. One day, the songbird befriended the swan.One day, long ago, Lou Hastings fell in love with a girl named Brookstone.





	a life in your shape

**Author's Note:**

> welcome to ryan dismantled canon bc they felt like it! its been literal years since ive watched the fangblade cup episode but i recently started catching up on the seasons (theres ELEVEN SEASONS?! [old man voice] back in my day, there were only two episodes and we rewatched those two episodes and cried like MEN aka i stopped avidly watching at the end of season three in 2014 bc i was baby and sad abt zanes 'death' and too petty to keep watching when it returned) and that flashback of cole and wu on top of the mountain........ [clenches fist] that was such good character that i needed to write something related.
> 
> and so, i created a mom. coles mom, who in actual canon is/was an elemental master, so keep that in mind. and i also wrote lou without any canon input so if there are any lou fans out there [finger guns] sorry for destroying a canon character for my own angsty needs, still not entirely sure what any of this is but the bottom line: elemental masters seem to be horrible parents and cole's are trying their best, okay. i mightve made them minorly dysfunctional but. theyre trying.

_“Won’t we be quite the pair? –You with your bad heart, me with my bad head, though, we might have something worthwhile.”_

_(Zelda Fitzgerald in a letter to F. Scott Fitzgerald)_

 

* * *

 

 

He shuffled awkwardly on the thin branch underneath him, humming to himself comfortingly as he did. A few underclassmen had lost their kite to one of the larger trees on campus and had nearly cried before he promised to retrieve it. A family heirloom or something. So of course, he had crossed the glade and climbed deftly to the top.

Completely forgetting his fears as the breeze cooled sweat to his brow and carried his song, his efforts as bark and branch alike creaked under his weight. It reminded him of dancing as all things often did, step, shift, step, step, shift, step again in a simple pattern.

“How goes the clouds, sky?” A voice called up, teasing.

“Beautifully, thank you,” he blurted without pause. “How goes the grasses, earth?”

There was a pause, the air stilling, before a loud, chest deep, feminine caw of a laugh rose to meet him. He leaned out of the brush to spot the speaker, a woman his age with vibrant golden hair.

“What brings you to this tree, sky?” He could barely make out a beaming smile.

“Well, you see,” he called down. “I lost a kite to it and I couldn’t bear the tears, earth, so I retrieved it.”

“Have you ever climbed a tree before, sky?”

The branch groaned underneath him. “I’m afraid not, earth.”

“Well—”

The branch snapped. He screamed, his lungs heaving as he landed firmly in strong, thick arms only a few fearful seconds later. The earth smiled at him and he very suddenly found she had the most vibrant hazel eyes he’d ever seen on another human being. And _freckles._ By the gods, he was—

“Hello, sky,” the earth said.

“Hello, earth,” the sky breathed.

_—lovestruck._

 

* * *

 

Earth was a student, same as him, he learns. In the same program as him, even, for dance. She’s the most built ballet dancer he’s ever seen, but more graceful than anyone else. It turns out she had run away from home to join, against the wishes of her father, she explained over tea she hadn’t been able to pay for.

“He wants me to become a warrior,” she stared deep into her earl grey, almost lost, as though it had answers she couldn’t reach. “To fight. Train, to protect our village. To become a weapon forger. But all I’ve ever wanted to do was dance.”

A smile comes to her face, then, freckles squashing and stretching around the roundness of her cheeks. “Dancing… It’s everything to me. My passion, you know? But ever since my mom died…”

He took her hand and her smile became a little more genuine, a little softer around the edges as she glanced back up at him, the emerald in her gaze blowing out the darker cocoa.

“He doesn’t talk to me much. There’s a divide between us and we fought,” she pursed her lips. “I ran away to come here, to school, to… get away from the past and seize my future, I suppose.”

There’s a heavy pause where she sips and he weighs the costs of opening up.

_She’s revealed all this to a man she barely knows._

“My dad wasn’t around much,” he blurted, glancing away from her gaze as it snapped up. “He was… horrid. Demeaning. Belittling. He was— the worst. I raised myself, mostly. Learned how to sing because my mother died when I was young, I missed her songs, her voice…”

Calloused hands, thick, firm fingers found his arm and he carefully caught her gaze again. 

“I’m so sorry,” she sighed, eyebrows coming together in sorrow and sympathy. “I’ve learned sometimes… parents aren’t the best when dealing with grief. With losing their partner.”

A shiver ran down her spine as the wind picked up, one he could feel through her hand still placed on his arm, and he frowned.

“Do you not have a jacket?”

A thick tint rose over her face. He felt fond at the way her ears seemed to burn with it.

“No, I told you… I, uh, ran away without anything,” she gave a self-depreciating bark of a laugh. “How stupid was that? I barely have enough to pay for the room I have in town, not enough to buy anything for the wint— huh!” She startled sharply as his coat found it’s place over her shoulders.

She blinked at him in surprise, but he stared back resolutely as he saw the argument start to build. “Don’t even worry about it. I have plenty and I run hot anyway. It’s thin, so we shouldn’t stay out much longer.”

“You—”

He held a hand up, shaking his head. “Nuh-uh! It’s not stupid that your circumstances are horrible, it’s not stupid of _you._ You deserve better than what you got and forgiving is not something you would use to describe the world right now.”

“Has it ever been?” It came out meaning to be sarcastic but landing at genuine, sharp and sorrowful. "This world..."

“That’s why we try our best everyday,” he stood, wiping imaginary dust from his pants, collecting his dishes back into his basket as she watched him closely. “We must try to make the world a better, kinder place, however we can. Like giving jackets we don’t need to those who do.

“You’re going to catch your death out here,” he continued, standing and holding a hand out to her. She simply stared. “Well, c’mon!”

Her eyes tracked from his hand, fingers flicking at her patiently to his face. Tracing. After a long few seconds, she took his hand in her own and let him heave her to her feet.

 

* * *

 

There are hands fisted in his shirt and he barely manages a gasp before all the air whooshes from his lungs as he’s slammed into the brick wall again.

And then there’s earth, panting hard, taller and wider than he is in every way that matters now, a baseball bat grasped tightly in one hand. He’s too dizzy to really catch much of the conversation, just the angry tones and the thugs backing off, letting him slump to the ground and hold his head.

There are rough hands on his face, cupping his jaw and wiping at some of the blood where it had trickled down the side of his face in thin rivulets. “Sky?”

“Hey, earth,” he croaks, smiling weakly up at her. Her frown deepens and she carefully tucks an arm under his legs and chest, lifting him bridal. He barely slings his arms around her neck before the dizziness returns full force and he’s forced to close his eyes and count his breaths until he’s placed on a firm surface, sat up. 

More time has passed than he realized, he’s in an unfamiliar bathroom, run down and stained, soft stinging coming from the cut on his temple, whatever is on the swab she’s dabbing there. She’s _close,_ her freckles more defined and forming constellations, her eyes still that startlingly bright, even more so up close. She smells like the earth itself, funnily enough, like berries and freshly turned dirt, sweet and earthy in a way that makes him feel content. At home.

“... idiot,” she’s whispering to herself. “Why would you…”

“Th'y were gonna hurt y',” he slurs quietly, making her jump and pull away. He misses the warmth. “Were plottin' stuff. Us'ally warn th'm off but th'y got gutsy th’s time.”

She’s tense. “You didn’t, _don’t_ , have to do that for me. I can take care of myself.”

“You shouldn’t have to,” he protests weakly. Her face storms over, dark and furious in a way he’s unfamiliar with. “You—”

“Trust me, I’ve got more power than I need. Than I— I know what to do with. I don’t need people to look out for me, especially not— you.” He doesn’t know what the context of that is, but he knows it’s something deeper than a few thugs looking to pick a fight with the new meat in town.

“But you shouldn’t have to,” he repeats, insistent that she knows, she has to know, she _needs_ to. “You should feel safe here, that’s all I wanted. For this to feel a little more like… a home.”

He can’t read her expression then, but he goes on anyway, heat rushing to his face and making his cut itch.

“You ran from home and you always look homesick and I know you’ll be here awhile for studies and I just— want you to feel more at home here, okay?”

She breathes, in, out, in, out, in, and then _laughs._ Laughs that go from giggles to full blown laughter, until she’s leaning against him, eyes wet and laughs choking up in her throat, and she’s crying. Not soft sobbing with neat tears but full blown wailing, jagged cries from a raw throat, sharp inhales that catch-catch-catch her diaphragm and stutter every breath until she’s just shallowly wheezing with full breathes she can’t quite draw, shrieking like something captive’s trying to escape from within her.

He can recognize the impossible weight of grief and loss anywhere. 

It doesn’t startle him any less though, and they’re both a little fucked up aren’t they? The homeless earth, too broken, bleeding magma heart and loneliness he can feel in his bones, a solitary sort of anti-intimacy. The homely sky, too large, bleeding rain-cloud heart and loneliness he lives in, a desire for intimacy he won’t let himself have.

He pushes people away because he loves them too much and then resents them for it, trapped in his own feedback loop. 

She pushes people away because the ones she loved took advantage and she sabotages every new chance because of it.

He threw his arms around her and held on tight, pressed their chests together as though it would stop their broken hearts from bleeding out.

(Eventually, years later, they realize in a strange sort of disbelief that it kinda did.)

 

* * *

 

What was the occasional movie night became staying overnight, became fall turning it’s blazing leaves into cool white winter sheets, became the earth moving in with the sky. Became sitting closer, thighs brushing and scarf-sharing, became shoulders catching each other and her head on his shoulder, became their fingers tangling together as the winter thawed out for them both.

It becomes his little troupe, his nothing group he’d pulled together of a few old friends making a name for themselves in the area.

Became warm berry chap-stick as spring bloomed, on his lips, on his cheek, drowning him in the familiarity of it. Became brushing fingers, still rough with her pastime of gardening but no less gentle, fond, cherishing. Became daily letters as they separated, as summer rose with the temperature, became riding hours by bicycle, running those last few feet to throw his arms around her and hers around him, of the both of them crashing to the ground to the sound of her rough laughter and his own giggles buried in her neck.

It became his troupe's name, the Royal Blacksmiths, becoming common knowledge, spreading across the lands of Ninjago. Stories of their star performances get out, the fastest travel there is, word of mouth.

Became her hair dulling but no less vibrant, a little less gold and a little more warm, strawberry blonde as she tied it back, entered their new home, kissed the corner of his mouth, dimple prominent as she shucked off her layers and buried herself close in his side, content. Their eventual graduation, her tears and unfiltered joy as he serenaded her, presented a Yang half not long after.

It became more and more gigs, more requests, more money. It became more, really, than he was comfortable having. Housing is a fickle thing, as they move out of their tiny apartment, but they find the land of their old academy is free for purchase. He buys it on impulse when the principal offers it. Just the glades, the thin edging of forest, and the decent flat land for a building.

She had no home, not really, her tears forever imprinted on his skin, so he built one with her.

It became him running his thumbs over features he’d memorized, kissing tears away as she beamed, crows feet thick with laugh lines, even as her tears continued to curve over the round of her cheeks. “Oh songbird, oh sky,” she cried as she looked over their finished house years after that. “Oh sky,” she sobbed, never one to cry, “thank you, thank you.”

It became her hands on his shoulders, guiding him gently away from late nights over paper, from the stress of deadlines, of crossed out lyrics and the indecisive step of a new move he was work-shopping, not quite the confident step it would eventually become. The way she led him through her newest routine at the ballet school or buried his hands in the earth and tasked him.

It became the way stripes grayed through their hair together, the way she grew flowers in their own glade that reminded her of him, the way he sang and crooned for her, took her waist in a slow, slower than he usually followed, dance in their kitchen to the sounds of rain. It became the way his father passed away without a word, the way she wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, all familiar wide shoulders and hidden strength. It became the way slipping wedding bands on rough hands for the first time felt like second nature, almost a formality, because they had been each other's for a long, long time.

It was the way she welcomed him home, a home that was _theirs._ It became the safety of her arms, of the world’s prying eyes finally gone, of a thousand pressures off his shoulders.

The smell of petrichor and fresh dirt winding through their home as she entered, forearms and hands caked but her smile, unparalleled to anything in Ninjago, shouldering his burden with her own and him doing the same as an older man with snow-white hair knocked and she barely managed to grab the door frame in time as he told her that her father was dead.

It became the slowing of his tours, the shortening. The slow decline in farther shows and more local productions.

It became the painting of their extra room, the screams of a delivery room doubling, the way she scooted over in bed to make for him and the weightless bundle of blanket she passed to him with shaking hands.

Even now, when the days became years together, they were both terrified. Terrified and utterly in love with this love itself, this life they’d brought into the world. Precious, bright, weak and vulnerable, dependent.

It became the way their son cooed up at him, hair as rich and thick as his but skin as dark and sun-kissed, sun-blessed as hers was, the way wide, unmistakably hazel eyes squinted up at him, so many features of hers ever present in the soft smattering of freckles from head to toe, the soft curve of cheeks and cut of a jaw he could imagine sharpening out to his mother’s when he grew into adulthood, the thin of his lips.

She fights for her names, but agrees to his.

Cole, the son of the sky and the earth.

 

* * *

 

When Cole is young, he feels his heart constrict. To the scream of the thunderstorm outside, he and his earth get into an argument.

It’s one of the first in a long, long time.

He wants to send Cole to school, far away, to learn dance. To harness that agility, that litheness and skill he sees in the boy’s stance. Wants to teach him the world he’s so fond of. Wants to see Cole under the spotlight like he deserves, their darling boy. Wants him to be happy, like he is under the lights of the dance hall.

She thinks he’s shucking responsibility, that he’s becoming overwhelmed by fatherhood and is just having a knee jerk reaction. Maybe his fame clouding his judgment. It comes to a head as the lanterns blow out, the house only carefully illuminated by the charged storm. 

 _You push people away, ostracize them,_ he sees more than hears over the downpour flooding from the sky outside. _You hurt them, and then blame them for it, and I won’t let you do it to our son, like—_

They both flinch back as though they’ve simultaneously struck as lightning roars nearby, deafening, and he grits his teeth and closes his eyes tightly against the burn.

“Mama?”

“Baby! Oh, Cole, I’m sorry, so sorry. It's okay, sweetheart.” He can hear her pass him, pick their son up, hold him close. He can feel eyes against the back of his head and doesn’t move as they leave into another room, the eyes and their owner with their child. He stands there until his knees ache and he’s forced to shuffle to the window sill to lean.

He watches the sky rip open and spill a broken dam forth. He watches the garden drown, the wildflowers in the glade shake and shudder with the rain.

She doesn’t come back out.

 

* * *

 

She puts a hand, palm up between them. It takes a minute, sixty-something seconds before he works himself enough to put his own on top of it and lace their fingers. They don’t speak, but there’s an aged weariness there, the love they share somewhere mixed in but still diluted.

They love him so much, their son, but neither of them knows how to love themselves the same way they love another human being. The love they themselves share is already something patchwork. They want what’s best for them, for _him,_ but—

Cole crawls between them, poking at his earth’s side until she’s cackling and she’s pulling away from him to grab the small, squealing boy under the arms and drag him into her lap, digging her fingers mercilessly into his ribs.

He barely manages to get a picture before he gets dragged into it himself with a choked laugh of his own.

 

* * *

 

The shows dwindle, but the work doesn’t. He fills books without the constant drain of tour after tour. He writes songs of all kinds, lyrics in cramped handwriting because there’s never enough room. He practices moves with his love, working through moves together, some ballet, some of his more blended style. They have time to do that now, more than before, with him home.

Cole likes standing on their feet and clinging to their hands as they walk it through it together, taking part where he can. He writes songs with Cole between his legs at the piano bench, teaching him the perfect arch to his fingers, the way the keys sing with them.

He writes too, too many of his songs about how much he loves them. Not all of his fans are there for sappy love songs, poetry and spoken word with the rhyme of a slow hum of chord and harmony behind them. Not all of them are there for the book he keeps on his person at all times, full of memories he never wants to forget, of important dates like recitals and local school dances and plays Cole takes part in. Full of snippets like _Cole likes cake, noodles, and the color orange,_ and _earth loves the flowering seeds from the East, get more for birthday,_ and _always add an extra spoon of honey for Cole’s tea, he has a huge sweet tooth._ Things he's afraid will be lost to time, things he wants to cherish.

He doesn’t want to let them go, but Cole wants to see the world. He’s got a strange sort of wanderlust about him, a deep seated drive for success that gets him through anything he puts his mind to. It’s so reminiscent of his mother, he wants to double take. But he doesn’t, he’s been married to said mother for nearly a decade now, lovers for nearly double that, so he scoops up his son and cherishes, memorizes every moment of that laugh, that toothy smile.

 

* * *

 

They send him to the school, years later. Cole had been interested, wanting to go and learn, almost too eager. He was nearly a teen now. They get letters every few days and calls nearly every one, but they still feel the void of his presence in their lives. He had grown up, nearly. The years went faster and faster, their son sprouting higher and higher. He was going to be taller than his mother one day, which was definitely taller than him.

The calls get farther and farther apart, the same with the letters, but he’s no less enthusiastic.

Eventually, he stops getting the newsletters from the school. It means nothing to him, Cole tells them everything. It’s simply curious.

 

* * *

 

Life continues on.

 

* * *

 

Time passes.

There’s something wrong with his earth, he thinks, but he can’t put his finger on it.

Time passes, and they sing to the sound of rain and his songs. They’re old songs, ones he’s written himself or twisted together for them, ones he’s sung to her for years, ones she still asks for, hums along to his croon as they slow dance in the kitchen.

He loves her just as much as he did when they first met. For all it matters in this moment, they are two slow dancers, the last ones out of the old gym the school had rented for the night.

 

* * *

 

Time passes.

 

* * *

  

One day…

 

* * *

 

One day.

 

* * *

 

One day, she’s there.

 

* * *

 

One day, she’s gone.

 

* * *

 

One day, he can feel his heart begin to bleed freely once more, as it had many, many years ago, a bloody mess that gushes and gushes, and he can’t even imagine patching it up.

And then he remembers Cole, his sweet, sweet son in school, miles and miles away, oblivious, singing and dancing his heart out.

His son refuses to come all the way home for a reason his father won’t state. He hadn’t wanted to tell Cole over the phone, but if his son had gotten anything from his mother (his mother, his _dead_ mother, oh no, oh please, please no, not her, _please—_ ) it was stubbornness.

 

* * *

 

Time passes.

Cole comes home for a single day before he leaves.

He does not come back.

 

* * *

 

One day, he goes outside, climbs an aged tree all the way to the top, and sings. 

He sings, sings, croons, caws, screams and howls until his voice cracks and his throat is raw, and the branch breaks.

This time, the earth is unforgiving.

 

* * *

 

His careers waits for him. Cole… he only stays home a few days at a time before he goes back to school, almost guiltily. He waves him off of course, because there’s nothing to be guilty about, but somewhere along the line, in the months that pass like mere breaths, Cole becomes resentful.

So he does what he knows, what he does best, and he sings, sings, sings, calls and sings, wears out the floor with a missing partner, hoping maybe—

(maybe cole will hate him less. maybe she’ll come back, if he’s desperate, lonely enough. maybe if he gets hurt, she’ll show up to rescue him. cole reaches out like a man drowning, he hates the water, likes his feet firmly on the ground like his mother, but all he can do is try half heartedly, haha, to stop the bleeding. cole has always been stronger than him, stronger than them both.)

(i’m so, so sorry cole. i’m sorry i’m not her. i’m sorry i can’t be her. i’m sorry i can’t be the father you need. i’m _sorry—)_

 

* * *

 

He sings and dances until he’s back in shape for tour and throws himself into his work once more. He’s got new notebooks to sing from now, after all.

 

* * *

 

Cole stops sending letters. The calls stopped months before.

He sends his birthday gifts to him despite that, continues sending letters but receiving nothing but the opened letter and maybe the occasional few-word answers in return. Something about high school level classes getting more and more rigorous. That’s right, Cole was a real teen now, in advanced courses. Of course he would be busy.

He keeps sending letters, writes and writes until his hands cramp and spasm, and he forces himself to lay down in a too-big bed because there’s no way he’s getting rid of it for something smaller, but Gods, he’s so, so tired of this. 

He wishes the ground would swallow him up already. He wishes someone would call him sky and kiss his forehead, his cheek, his lips. He wishes _she_ would.

He still hops up on the bathroom counter when he accidentally cuts his hand on glass. He still tugs the covers in just right, the way she did every morning. He still dances to their songs in the kitchen and makes sure all the lights are on after seven because _it’s always too dark after seven, sky._ He still sings, because she would always tell him how much he had a voice for speech, for song, she would call him songbird and ask for another, and he always would.

She asked for songs, songs for the rest of their life as she bound herself to him with Yin-Yang Promises and wedding bands, so he sings and dances and he finds the world a little bit brighter, a little less heavy, a little less suffocating each time he does.

 

* * *

 

One day, the paper introduces four local ninja, crime fighters and peacekeepers in white, red, blue, and black, with the power of elements at their beck and call, at the yield of golden weapons.


End file.
